Grag Balbrady

The People's Champion Has Returned


I note with much chagrin that those cold-pressed hacks over at the Guardian are kicking up yet another fuss about our Tony. The outrage this time? One of his daughters, Frances, received a scholarship to attend a fashion school that has an Abbott donor sitting as Chairman on the board of Governors.

To that I say, boo bloody hoo. What do the general public care if our Tony’s well-fit offspring did or didn’t pay her own way through her tertiary schooling? In fact, I see this as being no more than a gentlemanly courtesy that harkens back to the very fabric of our social being: in one corner we have a young woman, so graciously and progressively allowed to further her education by a doting father; and in the other corner, we have the father’s good friend, who so kindly offers to pay for the young woman’s schooling as a token of his generosity. Is this no different to a man paying for a gal’s dinner on the first date?

Ripe and ready for business.

Ripe and ready for business.

But instead of a wry smile and a tip of the hat to old fashioned values, we see confected outrage from the left-anistas at the Guardian, cheered on by their legions of brain-dead supporters in that most foulest of forums – the online comment section.

I am surprised that these zombified zealots can even muster the mental capacity to raise their fat, Twistie-stained fingers to the keyboards, so incompetent must they be. To that undead legion I say: stick to tweeting @Qanda and masturbating over photos of Naomi Klein, and leave our Frances alone.



I was entirely disappointed to see that those tea-smoking layabouts at UNESCO have knocked back our Tony’s move to cut down those pesky old-growth forests in Tasmania. How anybody could see the benefit of having these phallic monstrosities blighting the landscape of our southern neighbours is beyond me.

Having travelled Tasmania extensively during the native insurrections of the 1800s, when I was forced to spend months at a time fending for myself in the forest as I collected bounties and war spoils from the local Indigines, I came to loathe these logged interlopers of progress. Too many times was I ambushed by squads of marauding thylacines that would use the generous foliage offered by the trees as cover. The thylacines, high on the PCP they had chewed from the tree leaves, would gnash and claw at my loins, desperate to feast on the spoils. Only my advanced machete skills kept me alive during those dark times – I remember once collecting the heads of 25 of the striped bandits in one day.

We called this one "the Redwood Inn"

We called this one “the Redwood Inn”

In fact, it was with my machete that I started the modern-day logging industry in Tasmania, when on one particular occasion I hacked through a 12 feet thick trunk in under 15 minutes, so as to fashion a log-craft that could carry the small family of darks I had acquired on a raiding party back down the river before they spoiled.

News of my escapades, and the superior quality of the Tasmanian redwood, spread like a wildfire, and thus a mighty industry was born. Within months, whole towns, villages and precincts were being constructed using Tassie’s finest, and the wooden leg producers of Davenport became the third largest suppliers of false-limbs in the world. Furthermore, with the ample open spaces that wide-spread and indiscriminate logging afforded, the State Government was finally able to construct the highways, freeways and parking lots that God had always intended to grace the Apple Isle.

Bust fast-forward to 2014 and the scourge of the old-growth forest is back to pre-industrial levels. Once proud logging families now live in conditions of squalor, forced to sell their youngest children for cannibal consumption by totem-toting hippies with severe cases of the “munchies”. Meanwhile, the thylacine gangs that once inhabited the trees have now been replaced by vast networks of illegal immigrants, who use elaborately linked tree-top houses to plan eco-terrorist attacks on the isolated pockets of civilisation that are still attempting to eke out a living amongst the all-encompassing labyrinth of greenery.

A duo of tree loggers held captive by illegal Afghani immigrants (possibly bearded ladies) in Tasmania

A duo of tree loggers held captive by illegal Afghani immigrants (possibly bearded ladies) in Tasmania

And yet, when our Tony attempts to take reclaim just the tiniest of slices of land, to restore it back to its intended glory, he is thwarted by the international institution of ineptitude that is UNESCO. Shame!


Notes of an ex-exile

As I am sure you are aware, I’ve been bunking down with my comrades in the German diaspora of rural Argentina for the last seven years, weathering the storm of leftist propoganda that has wailed  so relentlessly from our shores. It has been a tough time, no doubt, which I will opine about in the future. But I do not want to begin my web log, or “blog”, on a negative note. Instead, I will talk about the budget. 

My good friends, there is nothing in the world more beautiful than docking at the wharves of Carrington under a sky as blue as a Liberal government, with a stiff offshore breeze in your face and a browned hide on your back. Such was the scene that greeted my triumphant return to the motherland last Wednesday morning.

Having disembarked on my trans-Pacific steam ship back in September (as soon as word of Our Tony’s victory had reached my  man-friend Fritz’s Argentinian finca) I had spent the ensuing months in an aquatic cone of silence. Feverish with anticipation, I could only postulate as to what wonders would await my arrival as I whiled away my hours, days, and weeks tanning on the ship’s deck.

Watching as my cabin boys clean off my sunbed in preparation for another day of anticipation in coconut oil.

Watching as my cabin boys clean off my sunbed in preparation for another day of anticipation in coconut oil.

Stopping for fuel and supplies in the Easter Islands, I heard murmurs of our country’s glorious new direction – no more “science”, women kicked out of cabinets and sent back to kitchens, immigrants banished from our shores. And then again, as we steamed across the roaring 40s, for a fleeting moment our cabin boy’s wireless picked up a transmission from Australia, and my eagerness grew as I caught news of Knights, and Dames, and Bigots!

But, my dear reader, none of this prepared me for the wonder, the glory, and the socio-economic segregation that is OUR TONY’S BUDGET!

For too long has our country LABOR’d under the weight of the welfare system, with honest, hard working battlers like me having to give at least HALF our weekly wage to overweight immigrant single mothers and kale-smoking, kaftan wearing hippies. Whole generations have been raised to believe that they will never have to lift a finger, and only sometimes lift a leg; with docile, marijuana-riddled 14 year olds inseminating their bloated, bleating cousins every 18 months. Public housing and public hospitals serve as nothing more than baby-making factories, in one door and out the other in an endless procession of diabetes and broken dreams.

And another thing: why are they so fertile?

And another thing: why are they so fertile?

And that’s only the tip of the iceberg of Australia’s ails. I could go on and on, just like the madly rooting teenagers in Apartment Block C.

But, thank the lord, along came Australia’s White Knights: Tony and Joe, and their Aussie Battler Budget. Finally we have the instrument to break the back of our country’s socialist democracy cancer; the blueprint with which all pure Australians can finally build the Australian dream: a nation built on free enterprise, punching above its weight in sport but keeping below the parapet in international affairs, and with no homos.

Yes, my friends, reading over the Budget Papers as I sailed through Newcastle Heads, with a stiff nor’wester wafting the odours of industry from Kooragang Island over the deck, I couldn’t help but think that finally, I was home.

I hope you’ve missed me.